Page 1 of Filthy Uncle To Go

1

Drake

The mouthwatering scent of oven roasted turkey permeates the air, filling my penthouse with a heavenly aroma. My kitchen hasn’t been used for what seems like ages, but that doesn’t mean thatotherpeople aren’t celebrating Thanksgiving. Opening the sliding glass door, I step out onto the balcony to get away from the scent. I like turkey, but sometimes, it just brings back bad memories.

A cool November breeze brushes against my bare arms. I should be getting dressed right now for dinner at the Millers’ place, but every year, I need a few minutes alone to convince myself to go. The Millers are a warm, loving family, but they’re notmyfamily. Well, technically not anymore, at least not since my late wife Naomi passed away. I appreciate the fact that my wife’s family still treats me like one of their own, but it’s been ten years since Naomi’s death, and sometimes, I feel a bit out of place.

At first, it was hard being around the Millers knowing that my beautiful bride was gone. We were married for three wonderful years before the horrific car accident, and we always spent the holidays at her parents’ house in upstate New York. My late wife loved this time of year, and she thought it was important to be with family if possible. I would have preferred to escape from the harsh New York winters by traveling to a tropical region, but the love and warmth I received from the Millers made staying in the area worth my while.

That’s probably part of the reason I continue to attend Thanksgiving dinner. Although our marriage was short, every day with my late wife was blissful. Dating wasn’t a priority for me immediately after I lost her, and it took a while before I could even look at other women. Once I finally did get back into that scene, however, it was pretty rough. Not because I don’t have my pick of the litter. Oh no, women throw themselves at me as if I’m the last man on Earth. It’s just that no one compares to my late wife.

As a result, I haven’t yet encountered a woman that I can see myself with for more than one night. Most of the ladies I bed are only after my money and couldn’t care less about my heart. Sure, I’ve dated a couple socialites here and there, but for the most part, my love life hasn’t been filled with much love at all – only a slew of one-night stands.

The wind blows again, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The sun is slowly setting, but it’s still too early for dinner. It’s only five o’clock, and the Millers usually eat around seven. They live on the Upper West Side, and it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get there, so I still have plenty of time to get ready. I gaze at the Manhattan sunset one last time before heading back inside.

The glass door glides across the track with ease as I slide it shut and then walk down the hallway to my bedroom. Silence rings throughout the penthouse, as it always does. I bought this place after Naomi passed away. She hated living in the city and just before she died, we were searching for a house in upstate New York closer to her parents. But after losing her, I decided it was best for me to stay in the city. I’ve always liked bustling streets better than quiet suburban neighborhoods.

However, despite the crowded conditions of NYC, I still find myself feeling lonely at times. I yearn for real intimacy, but in a town full of superficial women, it feels like it’s impossible to find one that gives a damn about anybody other than herself. I need a real woman with a heart made of gold and the body of a goddess, not one filled with silicone and Botox. The women I mount in the middle of the night are of no use to me when the sun rises. My heart aches for a woman who will make it skip a beat, not one who will only give me a boner.

Stepping into my bedroom, I take my clothes off and toss them onto the floor as I walk into the master bathroom. My hand grips the shower knob, and I turn on the hot water, creating steam that fogs up the bathroom mirror. Droplets trickle down my frame as I step into the stream of liquid. I squeeze some shampoo into the palm of my hand, then massage it into my hair. The suds run down my chest as I rinse them out of the black locks. I grab a bar of soap and lather my frame as water splashes against my muscles.

After the suds wash down the drain, I turn off the water and shake droplets out of my hair before stepping out of the shower. Grabbing the towel that’s hanging on the wall next to the shower, I wrap it around my lower body and open the bathroom door, releasing the steam. Water drips from my broad figure onto the hardwood floor as I stride into my bedroom.

Flipping on the light switch, I step into my double walk-in closet. One side is full of my clothes, shoes, and accessories, while the other side is bare and collecting dust. My penthouse is big enough to raise a family in, but it’s just me living here, all by myself. Listlessly, I sift through a few shirts hanging on the rack, and then grab a navy blue V-neck sweater. Taking a folded-up pair of jeans off of the shelf, I walk over to the mirror and scrutinize myself.

I should be used to going to Thanksgiving dinner at the Millers’ by now, but it still feels a little weird. I know just about everyone who’s going be there, but occasionally, they invite new folks, and then there’s the awkward explanation that I’m Naomi’s widower. Ugh. Not looking forward to that.

Pulling the towel from my lower body, I wipe off the remaining droplets of water and then toss it on the floor. I put on the navy blue V-neck sweater and then slide the pair of fitted jeans on before glancing over at the row of watches sitting on a shelf. They glisten beneath the closet lights, and I grab one of the less opulent ones and strap it around my wrist. I try my best to not wear anything too flashy when I visit my late wife’s family.

After all, they’re hard-working middle class folk, and although my brother-in-law Jack is a businessman here in the city just like me, he’s intimidated by my success. He makes that clear by constantly referencing my material possessions. One Thanksgiving a few years ago, he caught his wife, Nancy, flirting with me after she drank an entire bottle of wine. I would never touch a married woman, much less my sister-in-law, but ever since then, he’s had it out for me.

By contrast, Naomi’s younger brother Michael and his wife Leanne are the complete opposite of Jack and Nancy. They’re a warm, friendly couple, and I’ve never seen them argue. They seem to have a picture perfect family. I remember Naomi told me that they had some fertility problems when they first got married, and Leanne didn’t think she would ever be able to have kids, so they adopted a baby girl and named her Jenna. I guess that baby girl is about twenty now, so not much of a baby anymore, but I haven’t seen Jenna around much. I wonder what she’s up to? Probably doing homework or playing on Instagram.

But Fate is perverse because after the adoption, Leanne ended up getting pregnant twice, first with a baby girl and then with a baby boy, so now, Michael and Leanne have three kids. Ironic, right? It’s strange how the universe works sometimes.

I take a look in the mirror. Running my fingers through my hair, I reach for a bottle of cologne and lightly spray it across my chest. Leanne’s probably setting the dinner table right about now as guests continue to pour inside their home. It’s a little after six; I’ll need to leave soon. I grab a pair of socks and slip them onto my feet, then slide on a pair of shoes.

Hopefully, I won’t get stuck sitting next to Jack or his wife at the dinner table. I think I’d rather sit with the kids than sit beside either of them. I’ll probably eat and stay long enough for one drink after dinner, and then head back home. It’s always good to see the Millers, but being around them reminds me of Naomi’s death, something I try to forget about. Sometimes it still hurts when I think about it, and the last thing I want to do is to be sad on Thanksgiving.

I glance over at the empty side of the closet one last time. A wave of loneliness crashes over me. If only there was someone I could share my life with. I have a successful career, plenty of money, and a huge penthouse, but it means nothing if I have to spend the rest of my days alone. Sure, there are plenty of women who want me, but none of them are the one I’m searching for. I loved Naomi with all of my heart, and I’m want thatfeelingagain.

I want a woman I can make passionate love to in the middle of the night and then wake up to the next morning, holding her close in my arms. Someone I can shower with love and affection, and possibly even have a family with. Someone who gets me, without having to say a word. Naomi passed away too soon, so I never got the chance to be a father. As I listen to the echoing silence, I crave a family more than ever.

I turn off the closet light and try to forget, but attending a family function always makes me morose. Maybe alcohol will help, and besides, it would be impolite to show up to dinner empty handed. I exit the bedroom and stride to the kitchen, where there’s a wine fridge. Pulling the glass door open, I wrap my hand around a chilled bottle of pinot and take it out of its slot.

I shut the glass door, and then glance at my watch again. It’s a quarter past six – it’s more than time for me to leave. Hurriedly, I put on my coat, grab the wine, and then exit the apartment.

The door to my cold, loveless home slams shut behind me as I walk toward the elevator. Spending Thanksgiving with the Millers is better than spending it all alone in my penthouse, to be sure, and I’m grateful they make me feel like family even though I’m technically no longer a part of theirs. But I’m ready for new beginnings, and revisiting the past is getting tiresome. Squaring my shoulders, I make a vow. Something’s going to change before the new year comes because I can’t keep going on like this.

2

Drake

Carefully pushing the numbers on the intercom, I call up to Michael and Leanne’s apartment. The wind blows as I wait, causing me to shiver a bit. There’s a loud buzz, and I wait impatiently to hear a voice come through on the intercom.

“Who is it?” a soft, angelic voice asks.

My heart skips a beat from the gentle tone. Who could this be? Certainly not Leanne, that’s for sure. She has a middle-aged, braying tone that reminds me of a donkey. Well, with a voice this lovely, the mystery woman has to be the most beautiful woman in the world.